


Crown of a Dog Days

by Allison_Goodfellow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Academy, Alternate Universe, Drama, Enemies to Friends, Happy Ending, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28890285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allison_Goodfellow/pseuds/Allison_Goodfellow
Summary: The memory of days gone by... Remember the red-haired dog, beating the water with his strong paws and his fur turning wet, like copper. Remember our walks after school, like a journey all over London in just an hour and a half. Remember...This is the same friendship, woven tightly and through time... But how did it begin when John is an ordinary backwoods boy and Sherlock is the heir to an aristocratic family...?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 4





	1. "Are we friends now?"

Westminster School London is one of the most popular and elite schools in England. He had just transferred here. He had already received his uniform and textbooks the other day and had time to remember all the classrooms and teachers' names. He and his family had moved from the north of Scotland to London. There was a reason for that - his father's death. His mother could no longer stay in that house, it hurt her to be in those places where she had first found love and then lost everything. London was chosen, perhaps because his grandmother lived there. And so, a week later, he goes to a new school where one encounter will change the rest of his life. He is a fourteen year old boy with blond wheat-coloured hair called John Watson.

The first day brings nothing new. John couldn't get along with his classmates. He understood that he was not a descendant of an earl or a king, he was an ordinary child, but with a fairly well-off grandmother, for it was she who had insisted that he be educated in this school. Being the white sheep might be the lousiest feeling. Among everyone else, John noticed one boy who no one spoke to. It was like he was invisible. His clenched fingers as he pondered, his gaze staring off into the distance, his eyes drowning in the sky, and his hair as black as tar. "I wish I could be friends with him," was all John had been thinking about lately.

\- Hey, Sherlock! Using your deduction to figure out what I need from you?

\- Firstly, induction. Secondly, I have absolutely no interest in your proposal. 

\- But I'm so bored, Sherlock. I want your attention.

\- James, don't be so naive.

\- You'll call your brother again, won't you? Look, I can do whatever I want, and even you can't stop me... 

James started pouring water over Sherlock, humiliating him in front of the others. He stroked him quietly on the head while uttering dirty words. Sherlock understood that it was better to endure the bullying for a few minutes than to do his errands later. And indeed, no one even tried to stop it. All the boys were afraid of him, and he considered himself... No. He was the king among the rest. John, being honest and fair, couldn't stand it any longer. It pissed him off that he could treat his classmates like that, thinking he was above the rest. It wasn't right. Disgusting. He decided to stand up for the defenceless man without fear of being judged. After all, that was what his father had taught him. 

\- That's enough! What did he do to you?!

\- Oh, how brave! What, Sherlock, have you got a pet?

\- I'm not his pet! How can you be so... 

\- What? А?

\- Please stop all this. 

\- All right, all right. I'll give in this time. But remember, one day, I'll burn heart out of you... 

After that, John gave his jacket to Sherlock and started to go home. John expected nothing in return, but the words of gratitude reached his heart. At that moment a spark was kindled that would soon burst into a bright flame. At the gate young Holmes caught up with him and tried to say something, but it only amused John. At first.

\- Erm, listen... What you did... It's noble of you, and I mean that. 

\- You don't have to, I get it. I don't, though. Why do you let him treat you like that?

\- It's been a long time coming. James Moriarty is my enemy. Our game turned into a war, I don't even remember how it happened. And you... 

\- Oh, yes. John Watson. I'm new here.

\- I know. I also know you're from Scotland, supposedly from the north.

\- That's genius. But how do you know?

\- Well, it's not hard. You're Scottish, but you're not a redhead. Your hair's blond enough, I assume you inherited it from your father. Your middle name is Hamish. No Englishman would give that as a first name, I mean at baptism, and as your middle name is John, more reversible in speech, I can deduce that your mother is English. Blood mix, pure genetics, chemistry, and we get you. It's also the accent from the north of Scotland that gives you away. 

\- Wow. You sure you're 14?

\- No, not really. I'm almost fifteen. 

Soon a black car pulled up, out of which a young man in a sharp suit and a nice tie, holding a classic black umbrella. John at once realized that he was from the upper classes of British aristocracy, but who he was to Sherlock was not an easy mystery.

\- This is my brother. He works for the British ministry. A very important figure to me and to England itself. God save the Queen. I almost forgot, I'll give you your jacket back tomorrow morning. Don't be late for school.

\- Yeah, well... Um, what's your name... 

\- William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Just Sherlock. See you tomorrow, John.

Sherlock drove off, but waved from the window. His cold eyes and fiery speech betrayed no true emotion, but somewhere inside he was insanely happy that it had worked out that way. Mycroft patted his brother's wet strands, asking questions in passing, to which Sherlock replied that it was only a game and that no harm had come of it. Young Holmes gripped his jacket tighter with his fingers, remembering how bravely John had confronted James, and then spoke to him. The wall that separated Sherlock from the society cracked. It seemed that just a little longer and it would fall. His life had begun to change, and he had already realised it, but it was proving very difficult to believe it was real.

John walked through the streets of London. It wasn't at all like his native Scotland. No majestic mountains, crystal lakes and forests with countless trails. He was already used to this luxury, but it still lacked something native, so close to his heart. Perhaps it was the best friend that would share all the joys of life with you and fill you with memories. John did what no one else could before. Sherlock Holmes is a top student at Westminster Academy, with whose thinking few can match. An unrecognised genius so far. "Are we friends now?". An unsettling thought one by one. John looked at the people passing by, the buildings and the sky drowning in the setting sun. The wind was chilling a little, but it wasn't cold. Only warmth emanating from within.

A strange feeling enveloped the two of them. Like hoarfrost on the cold ground. The silence of this world, that seemed so unreal, artfully created by someone, was interrupted. Sherlock used sarcasm to hide his own emotions and wonder if he was capable of sincerity, and John simply paced among the murky light of the lights, hidden behind the shroud of that very snow. 

On the way home, each thought differently, but something united their thoughts. The anticipation of tomorrow. The two boys, very different from each other, were suddenly friends. It was incredible for both of them. Already at home, as night fell on the city and people slowly entered the realm of Morpheus, John and Sherlock looked up at the stars. Across the city, when the distance was measured in tens of kilometres, they were still connected by a single sky.


	2. Red Dog

The academic hours gradually turned into days that they began to spend together. Reading books in the cosy library, outings to the British Museum, accompanied by Sherlock's rather tedious lectures and John's boundless curiosity. The two complemented each other, and the emptiness within the soul was no longer so frightening.

The hazy sun at nine in the morning. Its rays, falling in patches across the courtyard, grazed the edge of the roof, penetrating the room. Dust particles floated in the air, settling on books with worn covers, but the air itself was fresh. That morning chill that made me want to wake up and run for the day. It must have been how Sherlock's mornings began. He used to take every opportunity to stay home, but now he can't linger for a second. He's afraid he'll be late for the adventure that John has devised.

Sunday morning. They have arranged to meet in Regent's Park. Sherlock tells John that it's a favourite place for Londoners north-west of the centre. Like Hyde Park, Regent's was the personal hunting ground of Henry VIII and only became public in 1845. "I'm like my brother and proud of it" - Sherlock repeated this often, as if to remind John that he was just as clever as Mycroft. An ordinary walk between two friends, but they still had so much to learn about each other.

\- You know, I've never been outside of England. Tell me what Scotland's like. 

\- Um, well, it's probably one of the most beautiful places in Britain. Rugged mountains and valleys and hills and fields and woods, where I spent a lot of time. Mostly hunting with my dad. He would shoot game and our dog would find it. Oh, that's right! There's a lot of heather moors and secluded sandy beaches. It's cold, though.

\- Oh, lucky you... I'm not allowed to have a dog. 

\- Why not?

\- It would distract me from my studies. My parents want me to be a doctor, maybe a chemist, maybe a diplomat.

\- What do you want?

\- I want to be a pirate!

The conversation, which had started from nothing and gone nowhere, made them see each other's world in a new way. John was no longer the pragmatic and quiet but brave hero from one good fairy tale, and Sherlock turned out to be a dreamer. They listened to whispers of secrets, hoping to be heard. You cannot deceive your own heart, for it knows the true path, knows all secret desires. And the whole world was now open before them... 

\- Sherlock, would you like to come for a walk with me and my dog tonight?

\- Not until after we've done our history assignment!

Belgravia. London's most prestigious and expensive area. There's a luxurious feel to everything. It's a completely different life - it's like being on a film set; the stately and elegant buildings, squares and surrounding streets are always immaculately tidy, which is a rarity in a big city like London. Where else but here could an aristocratic family live. The Holmes dynasty numbers more than one generation: knights, earls and even kings. On Sherlock's shoulders was a huge responsibility to the past generations, but he was ready for it. Since his childhood, he had devoted himself entirely to academic disciplines and the arts, alienating himself from society. 

Not a recluse of his own world, but its creator, which cannot be said of John.

Being a true Scot, he is willful, hot-hearted, but kinder than anyone else. There, he was truly free. Little Watson's favourite time of day is evening, towards sunset. The sun is slowly retreating beyond the unattainable horizon, giving way to his sister Moon. The cold breeze from the fjords brings something far away that you can't find in your own land, which is probably why you begin to think that you are lonely. In the Scottish fields John would run with his dog, flying a kite, or sometimes ride his father's horse. A noble Clydesdale called Alasdair, which is a family favourite. John was upset when he had to leave for London because it was impossible to bring the horse with him, but his mother was never able to sell him. Despite all the pain, that horse belonged to her husband and he gave it to his son. John now lives with his grandmother in Kensington in a huge mansion that has been passed down through the generations. The neighbourhood itself truly reflects the English atmosphere. Victorian architecture, stunning green streets and upscale restaurants. 

Very soon John would be fifteen, and he had only one wish. His grandmother said anything was possible. You just have to wait... 

\- Sherlock... Are you sure you live here?! It's more like a museum!

\- Oh, come on! It's just a house. You live in Kensington yourself, and here you are, for some reason, surprised.

\- Actually, I live at my grandmother's. It's her house. My family never had that kind of luxury, unless... No, never mind. Where's your room?

\- It's up and to the end, then to the right. I'll be right there. I want to get some books from the library.

\- Can I come with you?

\- Yes, as long as you tell me what you care about. 

The trip to get the books turned into a conversation where they exposed their souls. John listened to Sherlock talking about his life, about his brother, about where he was with him, about his dreams and expectations from his life. And after young Holmes asked some questions John was very astonished, because it seemed that Sherlock knew absolutely everything. John's story was not so interesting - usual life of a boy out of town, playing with his friends till the dark, hiking in the mountains and seeking adventures, but Sherlock was listening to it with bated breath. No rules, no obligations or responsibilities, but a life of freedom. They listened to what they didn't have themselves. Two completely different children from completely different childhood worlds found themselves in someone else who became truly close. 

After a couple of hours they did get down to their homework. Books spread around, the smell of paper, leather covers and worn dusty pages. In the small library of the Holmes house there was one ancient stained-glass window depicting the Virgin Mary. The sunlight falling on it turned into a multi-coloured glow. They sat beneath the stained glass window, studying the history of the Middle Ages, and in this blessed silence they heard each other's quiet sighs. And now, they were already sitting shoulder to shoulder. Sherlock's thin fingers traced across John's face, slowly descending to his lips. No, he didn't ask to close his eyes, he didn't ask permission, but he couldn't resist his friend's charm. A cautious and quick kiss. The same one that any girl who was in love with Holmes dreams of. 

\- Sherlock... what are you doing... 

\- Sorry, I couldn't resist. 

John pushed Sherlock's hand away, grabbed his things and hurried home. Before he left, Sherlock told him that he would be waiting for him in Regent's Park tonight. John refused to believe it to the last, realising that he was different. Already at home he sat in his room, pressing a trembling hand to his barely warm lips. An overwhelming desire to escape, but would only be left to stare out the window and think of all the possible lives he could have lived, but now would never know, because he had known the taste of love. Another love.

White clouds were gathering over England. Here, in the realm of rain and fog, the winds often prevailed. It was noticeably colder outside. John was going for a walk with the dog. He wore the warm scarf his grandmother had knitted him for Christmas, his favourite coat and his black, slightly worn boots. John didn't want to go to that park at all, but it was as if his dog understood that this was the time to be there. Sherlock was sitting under a tree reading a book. John couldn't find the words, so he was afraid to approach. Silence could be misleading, and the wrong words could ruin their friendship. 

\- I've been waiting for you. 

\- How could you have known I was coming?

\- I'm Sherlock Holmes, remember? You know, I'd like to talk to you... 

\- No! Let's leave it at that. 

\- Do you mind?

\- Well, I didn't mind then... I don't know now. Were you really waiting for me?

\- Yes. 

In the shade of the trees, they were talking about something. They argued again, wondered and joked. As if they were sworn friends who had known each other since childhood. Only everyone knows that over time, friendship turns into something more. Sherlock was afraid to look John in the eye, constantly averting his gaze, to which he only squeezed his hand tighter and asked just to look at the sky with him. The red-haired dog frolicked around, drawing them into a carefree game, if only for a few minutes. They ran after him, forgetting everything. And there were no two boys in the whole world happier than these. 

\- John, I keep forgetting to ask, what's your dog's name?

\- Redbeard.


	3. Dreams on a rainy day

Gratitude. An inability to repent. Arrogance and intelligence. That is exactly what Sherlock could say about James Moriarty in a few words. Their rivalry began a long time ago and is long overdue for an end, but neither of them will go for it first because it is a weakness to yield to your enemy. 

A drizzling rain at 8 am. A piercing sense of loneliness and a dream to soar to the heavens just at the sight of the grey buildings. Treading lightly in the world without leaving their footprints anywhere seemed to be the only way for each of them, but they went against all the rules and chose their own.

One day James asked Sherlock why he was so interested in philosophy. The young Holmes's answer didn't take long. In his opinion philosophy studies the versions of truths of this life. People are powerless in relation to this world, and if they had chosen the other way, what would have happened then? Ignorance of this world is something we all have in common. But trying to grasp all these seemingly simple truths, to understand something beyond and beyond ordinary understanding, simply disconnects you from reality. It's as if you're related to the truth. "They seem to be what I live for."

James himself favoured the exact sciences, such as mathematics or physics. Mathematics, he said, encompasses not only truth but also the highest beauty - a beauty that is cold and austere, like the beauty of sculpture.

Moriarty family residence. James was already waiting for Sherlock, for today they wanted to settle an argument from years ago. And it wasn't about science at all. 

The Renaissance, which left its mark on world culture, influenced the idea of style. The Renaissance is a weaving of the new into the old: the love of neat forms, symmetry and clear lines of the ancient world is harmoniously combined with the luxury, splendour and wealth of the late Middle Ages. This is exactly what the Moriarty Mansion was like. There were arches everywhere instead of doors, windows barely covered by expensive fabrics such as silk or velvet, with exquisite embroidery and twisted cords, and reproductions of the very Renaissance paintings hung on the walls. 

Being proper Englishmen, they began with a cup of tea and milk. Outside the window it was pouring with rain that never seemed to stop. Sherlock's older brother would be arriving in two hours, so they didn't have much time. 

\- That's... um... kind of you. I'm flattered. 

\- Thank you, Sherlock. Tell me if you ever wanted to cry, but no tears came, so you just sat there staring into the void, feeling your heart break... 

\- Into a thousand pieces, huh? I think I know what we're going to talk about. 

\- Do you? 

\- I'm like you - coming to terms with life and dreaming of something bigger. But seriously, when did it all start? I mean, you and I used to be friends. If I can put it that way. Why did you suddenly change your attitude towards me?

\- Me?! Didn't you leave me?! Oh, Sherlock, don't you remember?

\- Last week you promised to let me read a book on astronomy. Would you be so kind as to bring it to me, please? I've got a car coming to pick me up soon. 

\- You're really good at dodging the question. I say one thing and you say another. If I say you're vain, this time you're saying you can't find a man in the world who lives as wretchedly as you do. 

James grabbed his arm, pulling back the sleeve of his white shirt slightly, loosened his tie a little, and then continued talking, but in a whisper. Their faces a couple of centimetres apart, blood beginning to boil in their veins as the tension built up between them.

\- Sherlock, I, like you, ponder whether the man standing next to me could have been my friend in another reality. 

\- So could he?

\- The answer is no. He couldn't.

\- What do you want?

\- You. 

Barely touching each other with delicate fingers, they walked up the stairs. About halfway up, Sherlock paused, wondering if his actions were the right ones. If what James wants happens, Sherlock won't even be able to talk to John anymore. But on the other hand he could understand Moriarty as well. "Don't hesitate to let me be your princess tonight, because that's what you think of John, isn't it?". Again the guile, again the game shrouded in lies.

They sat on the silver-tinted blue silk, grabbing every breath because there wasn't much oxygen either. Disheveled hair and a half-unbuttoned shirt, a naive but sly deceptive look. They already knew who was playing this game, but they were in no hurry to expose it, or else there would be no excitement to play this game to the end. 

\- Why... why did you agree to this?! It was all for John, wasn't it?! 

\- No, James. It was for you. Isn't that what you wanted?

The argumentative questions were interrupted by quick kisses that made it hard to breathe. Fingers tangled in her hair, a shiver spreading through her body, a heartbeat so frantic that it echoed off the empty walls.

\- You never noticed me. Ever since we were kids, you and I had been rivals, but we were friends. Do you understand? Don't you remember what it was like before?

\- You mean like violin lessons? How about horseback riding? Fencing? Shooting? I always thought of you, but at one time you were depressed. I still don't know what happened.

\- I lost my parents... and then my life was divided into "before" and "after". I was afraid to tell you... afraid you wouldn't be able to help me... 

And his heart truly shattered into a thousand pieces, and all the pain that had accumulated over the years turned into tears. Pure and true tears. Sherlock no longer doubted that James had a heart. 

\- Sherlock, I couldn't say it because I didn't believe it myself... I closed myself off, but I realised it was a mistake. Then it was too late. You stopped coming to class because your brother started teaching you himself. At the academy, you're always reading, writing or talking to others. I wanted your attention... I wanted you! Eventually these attempts turned into bullying, but I couldn't stop. It seemed to be the only way... And then John came along. You found a new friend, and I was furious... 

\- I wrote you letters, but I got nothing back. I was deluding myself, covering my thoughts with a thin layer of dust. I was told to let it go, but I couldn't. Soon I stopped doing that too, so as not to disturb you unnecessarily. 

\- I had no choice but to face my terrifying future.

\- I would have understood. You know, John lost someone close to him recently, too. His father died and that's why he's living here now. Circumstances. You have a lot in common with him.

\- That doesn't mean I'm gonna run to him with open arms! He took you away from me.

\- You shouldn't hate your enemies. Emotions get in the way of thinking. And John is not your enemy.

For the remaining thirty minutes they sat in the living room and drank tea again, remembering everything. They decided to let go of that past, to forget it. That friendship, that relationship would never exist again, but a fresh start was impossible for either of them. Sherlock made the rational decision to stay on the neutral side. "A formal friendship? I didn't expect to hear you say that, Sherlock, but I'm impressed. Have it your way." Just a thought. James didn't answer; he nodded his head silently, letting him know he agreed. 

Before Sherlock left, they were both walking around the garden. The rain had already stopped, but the sky was still hidden behind thick grey clouds. Not daring to hold hands, they just stood side by side. 

\- Look at the sky, James; it's there for you. Look at the face of every person you pass on the street; all those faces are for you. And this street, and the land itself; it all belongs to you. All these things are yours, as well as all other people's. Remember that when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. And also, you have me. Sherlock Holmes, your friend. And John. You're not alone, never have been. 

They met as enemies, but said goodbye as friends. 

The next day at the academy, the first lesson was world history. Sherlock and John were already sitting together reading the last pages of the paragraph, finishing the assignment. James knew that Sherlock was certainly not alone, but still managed to approach and say a polite hello. A brief conversation ensued between the two geniuses, understood only by the two of them. Such behaviour surprised absolutely everyone. "What happened to him?". "Surely this is James Moriarty, the one?". 

\- Sherlock... um... what's going on?

\- Nothing. We've just come to the conclusion that it's time to bury the hatchet. It doesn't make sense, does it? 

\- Yeah, I suppose it does.

\- And why is John Watson so angry, eh? He's just determined to change. Is that a bad thing?

He didn't answer, just glanced at James. John was very glad to have another friend now. Sherlock took his time telling him what had happened yesterday. Having chosen a new path, shrouded in lies, he didn't even know where it would lead. Each of them sat thinking about something different, but that was what united them. 

"Even though we were close every day, there were still those things between us that we dared not say. As we lose faith and drift away from each other, we will try to find the words. No one knows what the future will bring, but moving forward hand in hand is exactly what makes us stronger. I want you to accept even my bad sides, because that's part of who I am now. And from this day forward, we will be what we have always been, we will be dreamers."


	4. Search

\- Sherlock! Sherlock!

\- John, what's wrong?

\- Redbeard! He's... he's gone!

The cold wind bit his face again. A fervent rage at the realization of his own insignificance in this world raged in his timid heart. Rotten leaves scattered along the road. To John, Redbeard is more than just a dog. He is more than just a friend. Someone so loyal, so understanding, who is never sad or bored. And if to John Redbeard is only a part of life, to Redbeard John is a whole life.

On a day off, it was business as usual. Morning mail. Redbeard dutifully brought the paper into the house, swiped the bacon off John's plate and ran out into the street. After breakfast, John went shopping with his grandmother. But the red dog was gone. Redbeard did not respond. It became a little unsettling, but still normal, because John knew his dog. He'd never run away from home for more than a couple of hours. Already since lunchtime, John started looking for his friend. He walked around the immediate area with Sherlock, asking around the neighborhood, but everyone said they didn't see any lonely dog wandering around. 

\- Sherlock, what do I do?! He's going to disappear on his own!

\- No, he'll be fine. I don't think he's run away. Redbeard's a clever boy.

\- He's never been to a city this big. Back in Scotland, I could let him go for a day because I was sure Redbeard knew the area and would always get home in time. But it's not like that here! 

\- John, go home. I'll try everything I can to find him. If anything, Mycroft will certainly help. 

Confused, he made his way home. Sitting idly by was simply impossible because his friend was in danger. Not far from the outskirts of the town there was a road leading into the countryside and there into the forest. A whole day had been wasted, but it was only evening, there were still a few hours before complete darkness set in. "That will definitely be enough for me. I'll find Redbeard myself!"

John ran to the stables without saying anything to his grandmother, saddled Alasdair and was already on horseback heading down that road into the woods. They had a long way to go in the woods: miles of silence and no wind. The cautious flitting of birds. Purple bells in glades, trembling aspen leaves, triumphant light, and finally, forest twilight, when dampness reeks from moss and fireflies burn in the grass. The forests are never silent. But all John wanted to hear was a familiar voice. That tinkling bark of his red-haired dog.

He chased Alasdair like never before. The ground flew from under his hooves, dust rose, and his heavy breathing echoed. Almost in darkness John noticed something flickering among the trees. He tried to stop the horse, but it reared up sharply, toppling the rider. There was a thud. John's head hit the ground, but he quickly got up and ran after something ginger. Scratching against thorny branches, stumbling into puddles and stumbling over rocks, he kept running. "Redbeard! Redbeard!" But it wasn't a dog, just a fox. Alasdair remained waiting for John at the spot. Going back home didn't feel like it at all, because that's how John found him. A little longer and night will fall, darkness will descend on the land, and then the way home will be almost impossible to find. John ducked into the horse's mane, struggling to hold back the tears, and so on all the way home... 

By the fireplace, where the embers were burning, John was looking at an old photograph. Him, his parents and a fiery coloured puppy. It had been a present for his twelfth birthday. "Is that really all I have left of you?"

"Come outside in ten minutes. S.H."

\- Oh, what... what happened to you? You're covered in abrasions.

\- I was just taking a walk. In the woods. 

\- The truth!

\- I was looking for Redbeard... On horseback. On the edge of the woods. Thought I'd found it, but it was a fox... 

\- Get him. 

\- What?

\- Do as I say. Go get him.

They were together again. The master and the red dog. Redbeard plopped John down on the ground and never stopped wagging his tail. They were both insanely happy. Sherlock told him that he had found him near the river near the bridge. Redbeard was lost and didn't know where to go, so he didn't try to find his way home. None of that mattered now, because the worst was over. John couldn't even find the words to thank Sherlock. He just kissed him. In the middle of the street in the moonlight they kissed softly, knowing that words were unnecessary here. 

***

\- You don't divide people's actions into exclusively black and white, but I dare you to ask this, Sherlock.

\- Why are you doing this? I thought you and I were walking amongst a sea of almost identical houses at the mercy of an unbreakable loyalty to each other, out of a reluctance to ever be alone again. 

\- How... disgusting... to hear you say that. Look, nothing bad happened. I just borrowed John's dog to play with. 

\- And then I left him by the river on the other side of town. John was very worried about him. That dog is his friend. 

\- Just like you are to me?

\- No. Definitely not. The hardest part for you is admitting your incorrigible faults. 

\- Yeah, you're right. It's so boring... being perfect... being you. Oh, Sherlock, if you only knew what I miss.

\- I do. It's friends and attention and love and care. I... We can give you all that. Just take a step towards us.

\- Why?

\- Because you and I both believe that this world isn't such a cruel place. And I'm ready to accept you, James. Are you ready?

\- No. So I would have answered earlier... But yes, why not? Yes, Sherlock, yes. 

\- Thanks for telling me where the dog was. It's really important, both to John and to me.

\- What's his name and his breed, by the way? I won't ask John.

\- An Irish setter called Redbeard.


	5. Sunny days

All people in this world have in common the bitter taste of regret over ignored circumstances. It's like standing at the edge of an overflowing river and knowing you can't change anything. It's like that in life, you're drowning. You want to go back in time and make things right. James didn't like idle talk, but he did it anyway, thus deceiving himself. The illusion of friendship, of someone actually being interested in you, and vice versa.

John and Sherlock spent the day preparing for their upcoming tests. Towards evening they went into the woods, remembering to take Redbird with them. In the whisper of the wind all secrets are revealed, just as souls are exposed in the night.

\- You're a true Scot, and you don't know your country's history!

\- I do not! I do, and I'll take the test.

\- Oh, really? What tribes lived in what is now Argyll and who united them? And the year, of course.

\- Erm... Well... There were definitely Scots and I think there were Gaelic tribes... Come on, there's no such thing!

\- Almost right. Scots and Picts. The history of the Scottish kingdom begins in 843, when Kenneth MacAlpin united the two tribes. Eh, teach better.

\- What? Are you going off topic again? 

\- I wasn't even thinking.

\- What did you really want to talk to me about? Moriarty?

\- You don't know anything about him. James... 

...wasn't an only child. His twin sister, Aria, died at the age of three of polio. An acute viral disease of the nervous system. In other words, spinal paralysis. No one could accept her death. Her parents began to hate James because it was their daughter and not their son who suffered such a fate. Aria was the favorite among the twins. Well, James was only "the other one." The constant yelling, the beatings, the hate speech. What do you think happened next? He lost his childhood. Closed in on himself, insecure, silent, himself full of hatred for people. In junior high school everyone was afraid of him, so he had no friends. When he turned nine, his parents sent James to boarding school, just to avoid seeing him. He didn't come home during the holidays and went abroad with the money he had saved. Better to be a wanderer without money than a rich heir to such a family. At thirteen he transferred to our academy. James had always been first in his class, but now he was second to me. Second again. Ever since then, he started bullying me. I put up with it, but at one point I hit him. Then for a long time I couldn't forgive myself for that. I decided to go to his house to apologize, and there I learned his story. I wanted to share this pain, I wanted to get closer to him, but I was scared. I pushed him away, and even now I'm sorry. 

\- It's normal. It's just an emotion. Isn't it? 

\- Don't misunderstand him, John. He wants to get better, but he doesn't know how. He lacks faith in himself and in his future. 

\- We all do.

They returned home, lost in their own thoughts. There are some among them that you can't say out loud, but that lift you high above everything, into the free, fresh air. Sometimes you have to run to see who will run after you. Sometimes you have to speak softly to see who is really listening to you. Sometimes you have to take a step back to see who else is on your side. Sometimes you have to make the wrong decisions to see who's with you when things fall apart.

On the desk in Sherlock's room was a note written by James. Again those words hurt. And again that desire to escape from everyone and even himself. 

"I'm leaving because I want to forget everything. I don't want you to think I'm weak. I don't want to see your tears as well as my own. I deleted your number a long time ago and burned all the pictures from the album. I try to live without you, but I hardly succeed. Just remember sometimes the seashore where you and I used to ride, and those forgotten places in the green park."

\- I would forgive you anything but your weakness. 

The sky is bathed in the fiery hues of sunset, and dusk is enveloping the earth. This evening will be the same as always. Quiet conversation, a cup of tea and a melody woven from the ephemerality of the violin and the truth of the piano. Two geniuses do not need words to understand each other. Music has the power to chisel fire out of people's hearts - and it will speak for them. And yet this evening was unlike any other before. Sherlock dared to say everything in one phrase, combining the apology with a promise to always be there for each other.

\- Stay here for yourself, for a dream, to see the next sunny day, to see a dog running in the water on the riverbank, to see something that will make you smile again. Stay, please. 

London's Westminster School. The grey walls that hold the wisdom of the ages, the gates adorned with Latin lettering, the courtyard and the library that is always full of people. School really does become a second home - not all at once, of course - but you get to love the routine of the days spent reading, the joy of meeting friends, finishing lessons and taking long walks afterwards, arguing about nothing and talking about the same things. It is a time to find true friends, the rest is in our hands, whether we manage to keep it through the years, whether we can teach something new, and whether we learn ourselves. 

In the beautiful gloom of the past, we do find freedom, and our wish - to always be honest and sincere - is fulfilled. 

Sunny days pass us by while we are locked in four walls. And it's up to us alone to wrap the crown of the dog, you and me days.


End file.
